Mind adrift
by Bjrn Fallqvist
Summary: A short story about some psychological side-effects a Bhaalspawn has to endure. Updated a bit.


All around him, there was darkness. He could not see, nor could he hear anything beyond the rusty, but yet strong and sturdy bars of the cage. On the floor was a sad remnant of something wooden that resembled a bowl, and also a metal stick with a rounded head he usually used to eat from it. One end of it had been sharpened from him tirelessly working on making it a knife or something similar in the beginning of his captivity, but it had all been in vain, he would later realize.  
  
His legs ached from not being able to stretch them out as far as he was supposed to be able to. The cage was simply too short, so in those cases where he was simply too tired to stand around or sit anymore he had to slump down against the bars and draw his knees up a bit, towards his head, or he would not be able to sit. After sleeping for a few hours, when he would awake again, not aware of any time, with his limbs stiff, his back hurting from the cold of the iron bars digging into his flesh through the torn tunic he wore.  
  
He was not aware of any time at all. He had simply been here too long, doing nothing but just awaiting, counting the minutes until the madman would come again. He was always so precise, always just on time. What was most terrifying about him though was that he was always just as precise, and even colder when he conducted his, as he called them "experiments". The expression on his face through the mask showed nothing, not even a hint of emotion, but gave more a look of curiosity and most of all, impatience, as if he was impatient for something to happen. As the knives sliced through the flesh, cutting several arteries loose, spilling blood all over the floor, innumerable amounts, lightning crackled through the body, fire searing all over his bare skin, burning and blistering it, the expression never changed. After each time, he would only clinically note the "changes". Nothing else, just the "changes" (although what these "changes" were, and changes into what, only the madman himself knew).  
  
Somewhere far away in the everlasting darkness in this place, there was a dripping sound, with agonizingly long intervals that strained the ears to their limit, only to make the next sound of the water drop splashing onto the surface extra painful. It sounded like metal, both footsteps when someone stepped near the cage, and also all other sounds reinforced that perception. That was the most he could make out of the place he was in, except of course the rattling of other chains hanging from the walls and the clanking of some metallic objects having fallen loose and now clanging against another surface somewhere. The air was dank and smelt of old blood, his own sweat, still murky water, and rusty metal. But the only breezes he could ever feel were the ones that sometimes seeped through a door opening into this prison, but all they ever carried was a hot touch to his face, not the chilling wind he hoped for.  
  
He was not sure why he was here, and since long had he forgotten a lot of which he had earlier learnt. By now, only fuzzy memories of his past life sometimes flickered through his mind. He no longer knew any of the pleasures of free life, and his only thoughts were bound to keep thinking upon what the madman might next have in plan for him. All that was of him by now was a weak shell, the shell of a man who have had his entire being filled with so much pain he no longer had any coherent thoughts or emotions.  
  
Perhaps it was his lot in life to be on the mercy of a madman in this dungeon, far away from everything. He had thought about it much lately. Nobody would have had to suffer so much as he had, unless it was for a purpose, and therefore his mind had become even more focused upon his master, the madman.  
  
That is why he was surprised and shocked to see his cage-door opened, but this time without any preparations, such as a magical containment spell, and someone peeked her head in the cell. She was human, probably not even in her twentieth year yet, and looked very much worn, her pink hair a tangled mess, and parts of her face deeply scarred. Her eyes, however, were bright with life, but also with fear and stress. As she tried to talk to him somehow, his minds attention wandered to something else. There were battles around him, with screams and sounds of magical combats emitting from somewhere far away and seeping down here, through cracks in the stones and ever small opening they could find. His Master had to be in danger, if such was the case. He could not trust anyone not to bring harm to his master, and would have to protect him.  
  
The girl was almost shouting at him hysterically by now, but he took no notice of it, as his hand slowly crept around and grabbed the iron stick lying in the bowl. He did not move any muscle at all except the ones in his right arm as if flew up, and the sharpened end of the stick dug into the soft flesh of the girl's throat.  
  
Her eyes were still wide with surprise, sorrow, betrayal and fear as she looked down upon her chest, which was now covered in blood, unable to speak a word.  
  
When she had collapsed, and was taking her last breaths, he crept back into the cage and huddled into a corner, feeling very nervous about what might have happened. 


End file.
